


Highlights

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:01:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For hard-sunshine, who wanted Johncroft with "<span>hurt/comfort and ‘first times’, in whatever way you want to take it."</span></p><p>
  <span>Mycroft reflects upon a few of the many "first times" he's had with John Watson.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rated G. 1st person POV (Mycroft's).</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highlights

Since meeting Dr John Watson, I've experienced a solid list of "first times" that I never would have imagined were possible. John exceeds all my imaginings, in fact that's part of the appeal. When you walk with John Watson, it's like imagination matters again. I can't help but be drawn to that. No sane man could. That's why Sherlock's fond of him too.

One first time. Let's see. Guilt. After demanding to feel his tremor for myself, after the business of intimidating him, of making him take my hand despite an obvious desire not to, I **felt guilty**. Sure, he was a bit mad, and still is. Sure, he's not always as thoughtful about things as Sherlock and I. But he has loyalty, and I can attest to its awesome power. It had struck me, in the moment that he'd given into letting me test his tremor, that I was overstepping. 

Obviously, I overstep a lot in the name of Sherlock, in the name of the country, and even for my own gain. It's part of my personality, I'm afraid, though I try to be careful. But, no, this left a more sour taste in my mouth than most occurrences, though not right away. I suppose the guilt really came when he seemed so instantly interested in speaking with me when he learned I was Sherlock's brother. And I can't forget, of course, the fact he thought I'd been some criminal mastermind. I'd meant to seem so, but I'd expected Sherlock to clear everything up.

I try not to expect too much of Sherlock. 

Around Christmas, I experienced my first genuine urge to give a gift to someone I **had no reason** to give a gift to. I didn't, of course, but the temptation was weighty, to say the least. 

Another first time was when I found myself meeting at a cafe with someone who had **no power** **over me**. Alright, the power thing is debatable, highly debatable, but I mean professional or legal power, or some other such power based in fact. 

Another first time was being falsely accused and **having to bear it**. And it broke my heart. I'm used to being able to refute, being able to twist the situation back toward reality, being able to walk away unscathed and even with a bit more power than I'd walked in with. John Watson pieced together the facts and assumptions at his disposal, and that was that. At the time, I would have said I'd never felt so alone as when he left. That probably isn't true, but that's what my feelings were telling me. Either way, it certainly was a contender for the award.

And let's not forget about the first time I was **forgiven beyond** what I believed I was owed. John, sad, grieving, angry as the winter wind and twice as cutting, showing up out of the blue again, just when I least wanted to see him...and when I most wanted to see him too.

And he demanded my attention, as he always does, because he's not intimidated by me. And that scares the hell out of me. But I was always one to like being a bit scared. He sat down and told me he was angry. He listed out my supposed betrayal of Sherlock again. It would have been tedious if it hadn't been John. The passion filling him up drew me in all over again.

I realized my mistake when he asked if I was actually listening to him. Taken by surprise and secretly very embarrassed, I had to fumble a bit, but I did list back to him what he'd said, and it calmed him. And then he told me he'd came to see me to forgive me.

Without thinking, I pointed out that that didn't sound like him. He said, no, it didn't, and then he said, and I'll never forget it, "I don't suppose people forgive you. I'm sure you screw up all the time, but I don't suppose people forgive you much. They don't let things go when it's you, like with Sherlock, like you're supposed to know better. Do you, though, Mycroft? Do you know better?"

And I had to admit that, no, I don't, at least not all the time. And my John, the old John, still passionate but not nearly as cutting, came to the surface. He began to cry, and I knew it was going to be another first, comforting someone who was crying **who wasn't Sherlock** , and I knew it was time to experience it.

I think that was when John became mine again. I'd never stopped being his.

But those are first times for _me,_ aren't they? Let me tell you about first times for _us_.

We've had our first date (not at a cafe!), our first dance (a bit embarrassing, but worth it), our first kiss (agreeable), our first shopping trip (actually enjoyable), our first time being outed by Sherlock (amusing only in retrospect).

We've also had our first time sexually (cautiously electrifying); why wouldn't we? But, odd as it may seem, these aren't the things that have stuck with me. 

Sharing a **park bench** for the first time, that's a favorite. The sun, the sound of children we didn't know, the mixing of nature and anonymity and interpersonal chaos, the highlights brought out in John's hair, the feel of his jumper under my fingertips. Coffee from the Criterion, and I wasn't fond of it, but he was, the way it tasted when we kissed once, just once, careful but not careful. 

The first time I ever gave a beau my **key** , and the surprise on his face as he explained it was his first time receiving one.

The time I asked him to **move in**. He'd practically already done so, but he was so touched that I became touched, and we both tried to man up and get through it without any ridiculous displays of emotion. The knowledge of our shared predicament brought us to laughter. 

Celebratory **ice-cream** the night he moved in. He gets me to indulge like I really shouldn't, challenges me into it like it's funny, and sometimes I even have to agree. I **didn't even regret** it, which was another first.

The time a colleague died and I'd come home for a routine I'd created. I sat in the dark sitting room for my cry, controlled like these things probably shouldn't be. It was late. He was in bed already, asleep, in fact. But somehow he woke. I had a difficult time explaining what it was I was doing, crying in the dark. I like to get these sorts of things out of the way, preferably alone. At least, it used to be preferable.

But John's arms came round me, and he told...no. He demanded that I cry on his shoulder, that I allow him to help, like he owed me it, and he didn't, but I didn't argue. All I asked was that he turn out the light, and he did. With no visual stimuli, I became that much more surrounded by wool and the scent of newly-woken John Watson, by his compassion and the strength of him, by the fact he may stir my imagination but he's nothing if not completely real. And very much mine. For me, **that comfort** was a first. Not even Sherlock has ever helped me cry so willingly.

I've helped John too. I remember the first time I woke to him recovering from a **nightmare**. I asked if he was alright. He didn't answer, just sobbed, but he came a bit closer. And I got closer as well, offering, intimidated. And somehow we met, a slow collision of misplaced limbs and good intentions, and I really felt like if we could survive a nightmare, we could weather so much more.

These firsts are the sorts of things I really think matter, even though I've filed away dates and details for the more pointless firsts. Our first anniversary is tomorrow, and I'm thinking of all of this because here's a whopping first for you: I've still got nothing planned.

Perhaps I'll ask Sherlock what he thinks. I suppose that'd just be one more for the list.


End file.
